The Unknown

Part 4

IV

My nightmares since he told me the story never ended. I dreamt that my room window overlooked this house, that we live three feet away from it. I heard voices from inside it, calling my name. The subject overcame my mind that everything related to name and numbers became the specific ones, House 32. When they asked me to make a presentation in the class, it's axiomatic that one speaks best about what he knows about the most. It didn't take me a few seconds to decide. The matter is that when I went home that day to tell grandpa, I never found him. When I asked mom, she told me he went to buy something from the local store down the road. I waited for him at the doorstep, and waited, and waited. I think I am still waiting till now. He never came back. We spread advertisement in every possible corner in the state, but it's like he never existed. I sat by the doorstep for hours, every day, waiting for his appearance, but the possibilities seemed impossible. It was this idea that kept knocking on my doors, the idea of where he could've gone. 

Was it possible that he went back to Macvils? To solve the dilemma of this house? I didn't have an answer, but I never stopped searching for one. Every summer, I get ready; I pack my luggage, only for one reason, to cross by this city and take the closest look at its gates. I will cross them someday, for sure I will. Years passed fast as days, until I graduated from college and became a totally responsible person. The house's matter didn't leave me, but I started looking at it from a different and mature perspective. I seated my cars belt and headed to Macvils to make things more than just a told story by my grandparent. I asked people the way to the midtown, and there it was. A filthy gray old house. Consumed by the time and nature. With no one nearby it, I stepped to take a closer look at the legend I have been hearing about for the most years of my life. I starred at every single detail of the house in contemplation. I turned back, heading to the immovable office to ask about the place. The office clerk was a chatter, the one that says any possible thing related to the topic you are discussing.

"Stephen Miller" the client told me.

"Stephen Miller?" I wondered.

"Yes, this propriety belongs to Stephen Miller since 1950 until now. Stephen Miller, yes, he's the most famous name in this city now. We all believed he was a compassionate man, but that's only until we dragged deep in house 32's history. We found out that this place belonged to his ancestors. Once we knew, fifty men from this spot attacked his house to arrest him, make him pay for the horrific crimes he committed. What happened is that man was never there. It was a shock when people found a notepaper left behind. "Every city must have something to be afraid of. It's the only way to guarantee discipline and order in any place. When I didn't find anything for granted, I decided to keep up with my family's legacy." he wrote.

He admitted it all, splitting this kid apart, cutting that man's limbs. It was all there. He said it was a tradition in his family to protect the house, and he regretted none of his actions." This story didn't seem to me but a grim joke, a terrible one. I don't know which part of it, but the whole thing sounded like a great dose of nonsense.